


And I feel your warmth, and it's like home

by liyumpeyn



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Hhhheeerrrmmm so this isnt finished but im posting the second part at a later date, M/M, just literal fluff, this is basically just the first half of their relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liyumpeyn/pseuds/liyumpeyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He's so drunk beyond his mind and he'll surely regret it in the morning but he doesn't regret it when he tells Louis he looks like the stars. He doesn't regret it when that night he fumbles blindly in the fine light but his hand still manages to find Louis' and they roll over and stare at all the Louis' in the sky for ages. The last thing he would surely regret is telling Louis he looked like the moon, too. But he wasn't just the moon because the moon wasn't big enough. He was a whole galaxy. Louis liked it when he told him that.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I feel your warmth, and it's like home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crimsontheory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsontheory/gifts).



It’s ass-crack of dawn o’clock when Louis wakes up on a Saturday morning to the sound of the morning paper hitting the front door with a crack and the garbage truck rolling off down the end of the street. There's sleep crammed into the crevices of his eyes and the sun is casting a ghostly glow over his bedroom.

“Coffee, coffee time.” He mumbles to no-one in particular as he swings his legs over the side of his bed and feels around for his slipper. Nothing happens these days. Nothing ever happens and so Louis shuffles around in his slippers and a dressing gown until he gets tired at 11am and goes back to sleep.

 

But then this morning, when he’s descending the stairs from the third floor to the second, and his ears are prickling at every sound in the eerie dawn light that’s flooding in every window, he picks up something irregular. It’s like a little hitch in the usual morning sounds, like a bird has left the nest outside his kitchen window or the neighbours have gone on holiday and there are no screaming kids outside.

However, those aren’t the sounds at all and when the beeping starts up again, Louis realises it’s a van backing into a driveway. No-one owns a van in this neighbourhood, the only vans here being the garbage truck, the bread van that stops by the Richardson house mysteriously every Friday and the ice-cream van that sometimes runs back and forth down the street on Sunday afternoons. The garbage truck has left and it’s neither a Friday nor a Sunday.

And so Louis does the only reasonable thing and peeks out the window of the second storey corridor to see what kind of truck would be backing into a driveway at ass-crack of dawn o’clock. To be honest he is just the slightest bit shocked when he sees a moving van backing all the way down the driveway of the house across the road. But then a small bit of him buzzes with anticipation of who it could be moving in, the house being vacant for two months now.

Louis himself had been tempted to buy the property, it’s build being so darn appealing. It was a two storey house stretched across about an acre of land. The backyard had a pond-pool, full of weeds and probably fish if Louis looked hard enough. But it was one of those ones that had a gradient beginning, all clear water and a diving board. 

The kitchen was massive but there was nothing there in it Louis needed, his diet consisting mostly of minute noodles and gourmet pizza. And the rest of the house was bedrooms and a living room with stairs leading down to a hugely unnecessary garage, able to fit three range rovers. 

So Louis had placed a high starting bid and left it at that, happy to have at least contributed to the progression of its eventual $9.7mil sale, US dollars. Admittedly a small part of him regretted not buying the property but the rest of him was really well at home across the street. Plus, from the third floor, he could see right into their backyard so it was a win-win. 

Now the question stood of who on earth had that kind of money to blow on a house in London. This neighbourhood was worth about $168mil in both person and property if Louis' math was correct. He had spent two weeks, when he moved here not two years ago, figuring out the average worth of each person and their home. There were CEO's, a few one hit wonders who scored big, rumour has it that even David Beckham owned a house a few blocks back from Louis' own and that was a rumour he was more than happy to believe. 

Yet no big stars had lived here for a while, most of them using the houses as investment properties and loaning them out to children of celebrities. There were too many paps with this house move though, some even daring to tread all through Louis' flower patch and nestling themselves in the hedge outside. Too many paps spell trouble, so Louis folds the shutters and carries on down stairs. He pops the kettle on, shoves some shitty roast blend into the bottom of his plunger and makes his way over to his front door.

Maybe that's where Louis made mistake #2, the first one being having been waking up. Because, you see, mistake number two came in the form of one beautiful human being who, as far as Louis could see when he pulled open his door, was currently being blinded by the flashing lights from paparazzi.

And again it was a very big _maybe_ that Louis had completely and utterly lost his footing and fallen down the first two steps in his haste to retrieve the morning paper from the bottom step. He swore under his breath upon making eye contact with his new neighbour, scurrying down the rest of the steps and giving him a curt nod, receiving a polite wave in reply.

"Gotta go fast." Louis says to himself, again tripping over the bottom step with the immediate regret of also looking like an grandad this particular morning. He was back up them in a matter of milliseconds, racing through his front door and pressing his back to it once it slammed shut behind him.

It was almost impossible for Louis to wrap his head around the fact that _he_ had moved in across the freakin' street. Harry Styles had been this long time celebrity crush of Louis', one that fueled a lot of unnecessary dreams and who Louis had maybe once paid £900 for a meet and greet ticket to at the age of 27. But no way ever in Louis' dreams had he imagined him moving into the bloody hippy house across the road. Louis was also starting to regret paying £900 to meet him seeing as he could have waited not 2 months to have him move in; he was no fortune teller.

 

\-----------

There was an old legend about Harnsbury Park. One that follows along the lines of a man and his dog disappearing by the lake and resurfacing as ghosts a week later when the clock struck twelve on the night of a full moon. Louis first heard it when he was strolling by the lake at night his first week there and was first screamed at for walking along the brick wall and then screamed at for being so close to the lake on a full moon night. It was barely ticking over 11pm but the story had chills running down Louis's spine and he was checking behind himself every five minutes should some ghostly figures appear behind him.

It had been utterly disappointing to have 12pm roll around and no sightings to have been made. So Louis had trudged back home and slept with the lights on that night. Ever since then he’s made a very semi-conscious effort to make his way down to the park almost every night and trek his way through the sludge and through the evergreen trees to the murky pond. 

Nothing happened, nothing ever happened and after two years of living as a local he had all but given up on attempting to spot _something_ in the darkness of the trees.

By far the most exciting thing to have sprung from within the dark fingers of the trees was a naked man probably high as fuck who had tackled an equally high Louis to the ground and rubbed his hair in his face before clambering off and leaving Louis as a filthy, giggling mess in the undergrowth. 

Some nights, when Louis was wandering the trees by himself while the moon crept high into the sky above him, he sort of wished another naked man would spring from the bushes and tackle him because the only interesting thing to have happened in his life in the last six months was hearing about Mr Reynolds peeing all over Mrs Reynolds’s flowers once. 

So Louis would wander the trees and sit by the lake and talk to strangers who ambled through the park late at night as much as his little heart desired. It’s where he found himself the evening Harry had moved in. His equally as little hands were running all over each other in the chilly air and his jacket did jack shit to block out the wind that was whistling through the trees like some eerie calling for him to wander further into its branches.

Louis doesn't need any calling and sooner or later he's hitching up his tracksuit pants and pushing through the trees until he's being reborn again as some tree-baby onto the other side of the forest where the lake met the evergreens. He isn't alone. He can tell as soon as the water ripples in front of him, right by his feet, when all the duck are fast asleep in nests and reeds lining the lake. 

What startles him, more than the presence of another human being at this kind of hour, is not so much the fact that there _is_ another human but that they were swimming. Like, genuinely swimming.

 

“Are you fucking mental?” Louis calls out to no-one in particular as the person surfaces in the grey water just off where Louis was standing. He really hadn’t meant for it to be heard but the person surfacing snapps their head at him so fast Louis almost turns tail and runs into the foliage behind him.

He couldn’t make out a face, could just barely see the way the person's eyebrows are pinched together and long, wet hair clings to one side of their face. But he can make out shoulders and a torso as they breach the water, all smooth pale skin in the soft light and littered with tattoo’s that are stark shadows against the figures skin. 

“Well excuse you.” They mutter as they drift just that fraction of an inch closer to Louis and suddenly the moonlight is pushing past the overhead trees and the person in the water is stranded in its ethereal grasp. Every little feature is alive and Louis mutters under his breath, stumbling back into the trees a little as Harry ducks back under and resurfaces again in the same spot with his hair pushed back so it is all off his face. 

“Sorry.” Louis whispers, taking hold of a tree branch digging into his back to stable himself. He feels like his legs could give out. Harry just gives him a curt nod, sinking slowly down into the water until just his head is lingering on top and he can blow slow bubbles into the water like a toddler learning to swim.

“It’s pretty cold in the water.” Harry says with a broad grin after a moment of excruciatingly awkward silence between them. The little knots and webs of anxiety leak out of Louis with a relieved _whoosh_ and he nods slowly as Harry waves his arms in the water to keep himself drifting just a few feet from Louis. 

“I don’t know if this lake’s clean but no-one saw me leave my house and I felt like swimming, so.” Harry just shrugs, the water rushing over his shoulders before it is pushing him back down and Louis watches his figure drift under the surface of the water before it breaks again slowly and Harry appears at its surface, grin plastered on his face.

“I don’t have a phone or anything, won’t take pictures.” Louis reassures, stepping out into the clearing ahead of him a bit more so Harry can see his face too. So far it has been a very one sided conversation and Louis’ only contribution had been an eager, racing heart and a great swooping of breath in his lungs every time Harry so much as blinked. 

“Thanks. I don’t.. I don’t have any pants on.” Harry mutters into the water, the end of his sentence just barely audible as he giggles it into the water. Louis turns his head to the left where, of course, there lay a bundle of clothes, neatly folded to the point where the socks were shoved inside Harry’s boots and everything is piled.

“So, you are mental?” Louis cackles, shoving his hands inside his pockets in an attempt to battle the ever present wind that is howling through the trees and sweeping across the lake. Harry cocks his head at him and Louis’s tongue suddenly crushes itself into the back of his throat, rendering him speechless.

“Like I said, no-one saw me leave. It’s, like, 12:30 in the morning, no paps.” Harry shrugs again. This whole situation was too relaxed for comfort and yet Louis was mentally patting himself on the back at what a great job he was doing of not bashing his face against a tree and screaming with nervous energy. 

It kind of reminds him of the moment right before a band comes on stage where the whole crowd will surge forward at once and there’s the same energy and electric buzz running through the area with a final burst of release when the lead singer runs on stage. Right now Louis has the same beating heart, same jumping in his throat, same thoughts of _keep it chill, cool, don’t embarrass yourself_.

So the next logical step would indeed be to embarrass himself and he does it so spectacularly, making to take a step closer to the water and instead sinking into a foot of mud that swallows Louis’ foot so quickly it may as well have been quicksand. It doesn’t help when he then topples forward and his hands come flying out of the cozy home they’d made in his pockets and instead find a new home in the mud right at the edge of the lake where the water meets the mud and laps at Louis’ fingers.

“Oh. My. God.” Harry punches out, pushing himself backwards in the water to keep from full on cackling at Louis as he rights himself and digs his foot out of the mud to reach safer ground. It’s a five metre trek through sloppy reeds that Louis bats down like a disgruntled lion. “Are you okay?” Harry giggles. He doesn’t mean it, doesn’t care, really. But it’s polite to ask, even when Louis just scowls at him and takes a seat on the rocky ledge that begins to circle the lake. 

“‘m Vans are ruined.” Louis growls, tugging the muddy shoes off his feet and bending over to swish his hands in the water to clear them off a bit. The mud still lingers under his fingernails and it’s caking up his wrists. 

When he looks over at Harry he’s a good few feet closer than he was before and there’s even more light blasting down on him so he’s this clearly painted picture against the backdrop of the lake and spruce. His lips are being sucked into his mouth, bitten down by his teeth as he bites back a grin. Louis sends a wall of water at his face, copying him in attempt to be mad at the fact Harry won’t even _help_.

They sit like that for an hour longer, talking like normal people while Louis sits up on the wall and Harry just drifts with his body under the water, bum lifting up every now and again like he has no shame at all. It’s so cold that the tips of Louis’ fingers start turning the faintest shade of purple and yet Harry seems entirely at peace in the water.

It’s just edging on 2 in the morning and Harry’s been in the water so long his fingers have entirely turned to prunes and Louis felt as endeared as ever. They’re friends by now, that much is certain. They’d talked about family, and children, and Louis’ CEO boring office job that paid well enough for him to live the high life. Then Harry’s chest had started feeling a bit tight and Louis had helped tug him over to where his clothes were still piled ever so high on the lake wall. 

Louis has the decency to turn around when Harry climbs out of the water and ducks behind a spruce tree to get changed. He emerges mere seconds later, trench coat buttoned right up to his chin when he taps Louis on the shoulder and smirks at him.

“Care to walk back home with me?” Harry said, shoving his hands deep down into his pockets and hip-checking Louis. Louis had snapped out an _”Of course”_ a bit too quickly and had covered it up with a cough that turned into a proper coughing fit when the air outside hit his lungs. Harry had thumped him on the back, right between the shoulder blades. It seemed to do the trick.

\--------------

They haven’t talked much since then. They haven’t talked at all really, almost all interactions being sparse flirty banter between the two. Most mornings Louis will trek out to his front porch and Harry will just be sitting outside his own home reading a book about poetry writing while paps photograph him left, right and center. 

Those are the mornings where Louis will make a show of picking up the paper, bending down so he knows the fabric of his baby blue dressing gown is pulled tight over his arse and jokingly wiggling around before he picks up the damp paper. When he stands back up Harry will be cackling, eyes gleaming at Louis as he just salutes him a hello and then frog marches himself back inside. When he stands by his front window later he almost always sees Harry shaking his head with a smile on his face while he delicately turns the page of his poetry book.

Louis has resorted to using these encounters as means of a conversation. Some mornings it’s a swift _goodmorning_ , while others the gestures contain a _how are you?_ that renders itself incapable of pushing past Louis’ lips. Harry is always there to respond, a near constant man in his roomy swing chair that sits just near his own front door. Some days Harry replies with a nod, a smile, a laugh. People have seen them interact but it’s like the paparazzi are bound to some vow that prevents them from photographing Louis. He likes it that way.

On a Monday afternoon, a little over a week after Louis caught Harry swimming at the lake, Louis pushes his car door shut and climbs the side steps to his porch. He’s just shoving the key in the brass lock, laptop bag balanced precariously in one arm, when his fingers fumble over the yellow sticky note tacked onto the door handle.

“ _One is mad when in love_ ”. Louis almost wants to throw up in his mouth. He doesn’t, just swallow back the bile and rests his head against the door. Behind him he hears the front gates latch being lifted and it’s hinges creaking. Then comes the sound of crunching footsteps and a low chuckle.

“You are so disgusting it hurts.” Louis mutters. The footsteps stop and Louis just squeezes his eyes shut, yanking the sticky note off the lock so he can cram his key in instead.

“Good disgusting or bad disgusting?” Harry laughs. When Louis turns around he almost wants to punch the stupid smile off his face but he just leans back against his door instead.

“Good disgusting.” Harry raises a victorious fist in the air, pumping it up and down twice while Louis bites hard on his bottom lip. He’s so, so, so very stupid that Louis is so, so, so very infatuated. “Can I come inside your house?” 

“You have to take your shoes off at the door.” Louis nods, turning the long awaited key in the lock. He doesn’t have to take his shoes off at the door. Louis’ house is a big enough pig sty that dirt tracks would go unnoticed for weeks until Louis is kicking it out of his carpet when he lays down on it while drunk. But god is it funny to see the way he races inside right behind Louis and spends a minute carefully undoing the laces on his boots and placing them neatly by the doorstep.

“You’re so _naive_ , oh my god.” Louis whisper-mutters to himself, pinching himself between the eyes. It’s one very, very downward slope from there. Harry comes over nearly every night from then on when he isn’t busy being a popstar and actually having a _life_ that Louis is significantly lacking. 

They drink and play messy scrabble that Harry insists on dragging over and some nights they watch a film until Harry is rubbing his eyes and Louis sends him back across the road with a cookie and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Harry will bring it back a few days later, still warm from the drier and smelling unnecessarily of Harry’s detergent. 

“How come we never go to your house to have lads nights?” Louis mutters one night while he sips on his second beer and Tangled plays on his flatscreen. Harry just shrugs from where he’s curled up in Louis’ massive grey arm chair. 

Louis thinks he looks even better in this lighting than he did down by the lake. In this lighting he sees the concentrated furrow of Harry’s eyebrows, nervous thumb tugged between his lips as he nibbles at the delicate skin. He’s got the blanket Louis’ mum made him wrapped tight around his shoulders but it’s slipping elegantly off in places so Harry looks like he’s wearing an off-the-shoulder evening gown. The curtains are drawn tight in Louis’ living room but every now and then a car drives down their street and the dark side of Harry's face is so beautifully flooded with lights of yellow and white and red.

He’s beautiful, has always been beautiful in Louis’ opinion. _God_ , never in a million years would he have pictured Harry curled up to preciously in his living room while he lived such a domesticated life that almost revolved around being best friends with the popstar. Not in two million or three would he have seen himself laughing drunkenly at 1am when Stan is over and he and Harry are playing an intense game of Jenga in the living room. It’s a very, very nice life.

“There’s nothing to do at my house.” Harry is biting those words back a mere week later when they find themselves sprawled out on the back lawn of Harry's house. It's Louis' first time over there in the two months he and Harry have been friends. 

They're drunk. Very, very drunk. Louis may also be high on a cocktail of two different types of weed that were just doing _things_ like making his fingertips tingle and Harry's hair turn to jello. Prior to this moment they had been swimming for an hour and Louis had spent the better half of it chasing after Harry while he repeatedly dove to the bottom and just sat there waiting for Louis to catch up. Harry could hold his breath for 30 seconds and then he would push himself up as Louis' fingertips would just be scraping his knee in victory under the water.

Every time he resurfaced Louis would be mere seconds behind, spluttering out _fucker_ like his life depended on it. Then at one point Harry had run inside and gotten out some 100 year old wine and a case of expensive japanese beer and Louis had pulled a spliff out of his jacket pocket and it had been happy days from there on.

"It tastes a bit like an orange, like, when you bite into the skin by accident." Harry slurs. He's lying on his stomach beside Louis on a pricey cashmere blanket he had dragged outside from the loungeroom. The bottle of wine is near empty and it sits tauntingly between them like some beckoning to _keep on drinking from things with beautiful gold labels_. Whatever it is is working and Louis and Harry as savouring every last little drop it has to spare.

"No. No it's more like a lemon." Louis mutters. He runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth with a loud cluck that has Harry flinching. Harry just laughs it off, rolling onto his back and tilting his head into Louis with the bottle sitting idly by his side. Harry's not thought about it until now but Louis is very, _very_ pretty. He tells him as much, reaching one hand out to stroke all the little creases by Louis' eyes when he smiles.

"I'm not pretty! You're pretty." He scrunches his nose at that, leaning in just a little bit closer to catch the way the the pool light is just branching out across Louis' face like a lighthouse that's only really lighting up half a gentle sea. Everything's blue and Harry just wants to touch it all. He wants to touch the little droop of Louis' left eye and the bit of hair Louis has curving down his cheek on the right side of his face. He wants to touch the bags under Louis' eyes and the 5 o'clock shadow that's haunting Louis' jaw. Harry's never wanted to touch anyway like that before.

"Well if I'm pretty than you're beautiful." Harry whispers. He hadn't realised it until now, kept it closeted to even himself that he was well and truly, wholeheartedly and unmistakably falling in love with Louis like he had never fallen for someone before. If he could put that into words he would tell Louis as much. Instead he turns it into the gentle caress he gives him, one that cups his jaw and leaves fingerprints along Louis' sharp cheek like he was tainting a blank canvas.

"That's a very big word." Louis smiles. His eyes go all crinkly again and Harry can't help it when he runs his thumb over the fine lines once more. He's so drunk beyond his mind and he'll surely regret it in the morning but he doesn't regret it when he tells Louis he looks like the stars. He doesn't regret it when that night he fumbles blindly in the fine light but his hand still manages to find Louis' and they roll over and stare at all the Louis' in the sky for ages. The last thing he would surely regret is telling Louis he looked like the moon too. But he wasn't just the moon because the moon wasn't big enough. He was a whole galaxy. Louis liked it when he told him that.

\-------------------

Harry remembers the first time they kiss. He remembers it like he remembers his birthday and his mother's birthday and what song Gemma likes to sing at christmas and what chocolate ice cream Louis likes when he's feeling down. 

"I want to show you something." Harry says one night while they're wandering the backstreets. Earlier that week they'd gone out clubbing and Louis had been profiled in the newspapers as Harry's new beau. They hadn't talked about that, hadn't brought it up over the dinner they had the Wednesday after or at the barbeque they had with friends on the Friday. It was Sunday now. It was quiet and cold and windy but nothing felt like any of that because Louis was walking by Harry's side, in Harry's coat and with Harry's hand shoved deep in his pocket right beside his own.

"What is it?" Louis says back. He searches around in the pocket for Harry's pinky finger, linking it with his own like some kind of knot in the deep darkness of Harry's burberry jacket. Harry doesn't say anything, just leads him to his range rover and opens the door for Louis. It's cold on the inside and Louis can't imagine the cold that Harry must be feeling with no coat and a sheer shirt. Regardless, Louis had left home in a button up short sleeve shirt and skinny jeans rolled up past his ankles. Harry had been more than happy to share his jacket.

"I want to take you to the lookout." Louis has been there before, countless times in fact. It was nothing special during the day, just a pile of dusty logs and an old campfire down near the water. But he could only imagine it at night.

The drive there was slow and Louis looked outside his window more than he did at anything else. Once they were out of the main part of the city it was an easy cruise to the cliff face. The The world flashed by with such a blur at this speed and Louis almost lost himself in the blue hues and grey lightning that flashes out past the waves to his left. The carpark is empty when they pull up.

"What are we looking at?" Louis whispers after a moment of silence when Harry turns the engine off. He shifts in his seat so his legs are hiked up at his chest because Harry hasn't turned the heating in and the car is still freezing.

"There's a pelican who comes here every day at exactly 11. He sits by himself right over there for fifteen minutes." Harry says slowly, leaning against the dashboard, he points the bird out to Louis who just barely makes out its shape in the dark. But sure enough he sits nestled against the rock ledge far out to the left of the cliff face. "He doesn't move or fly or do anything really for fifteen whole minutes and then choof," Harry makes a bursting motion with his hands, "he just flies away and doesn't come back until tomorrow." 

"So... You took me all the way out here to show me the daily migration of a pelican." Louis snorts, kicking out at Harry who sits with a weak pout. The shirt he's wearing is one of Louis' favourites, Harry knows that. The jeans Louis is wearing are Harry's favourite jeans and Louis knows that too. At dinner they'd both nearly popped a boner when Louis had hooked his foot against Harry's ankle and slowly scaled his leg until his foot was just resting between Harry's open legs under the table. Harry didn't want to have his shirt ripped by angry sex. Louis didn't want to cream his pants. He'd taken his foot back.

"I thought you looked very nice tonight." Harry whispers once Louis settles back against the car seat and wraps the jacket further around his shoulders. Harry takes the liberty of cranking the heating up to 4 and blasting it out of the vents to a very satisfied Louis.

"I thought you looked very nice too, Jagger." Louis smiles back at Harry. Harry slings one arm across the back of his steering wheel, resting his head against the top of it to just stare at Louis. Louis stares back, eventually breaking eye contact to let out a flustered yawn and to rub his eyes.

"Are you tired?" Harry asks. He sits back up then, prepares himself to start his car so he can take Louis back to his house and tuck him into bed like he sometimes does. Louis just shakes his head, snuggling down further into Harry's massive jacket. Harry lets out a very soft _okay_. 

There's no light except the moon and Louis is so thankful these situations seem to happen a lot because he gets to see Harry off guard. He gets to see every feature at its highest and lowest points and right now, when the only sound is the heater and the waves smacking against the rocks, Harry's features are all relaxed and fragile, ready to be sculpted and morphed into something even more beautiful; like his face when he smiles or the way his eyes light up every time Louis says he looks nice.

When Louis places a hand in between their two seats he is the least bit surprised when he closes his eyes and feels an even larger hand cover his own. "You still look like the moon, you know?" Harry whispers in the dark, Louis smiles over the jacket at him.

"I think I'm the sun and you're the moon." Louis laughs. Harry doesn't laugh, just smiles with all his face and shifts a bit closer to Louis in the car.

"I'm more than happy to be the moon." In that moment he leans forward, lifting his legs up onto the seat so he's crouched on all fours in front of Louis. Louis doesn't flinch, doesn't blink, doesn't even breathe properly when Harry leans forward so their foreheads are just touching. "Can I kiss you?" Louis nods without hesitation and Harry presses forward until his lips are pressing ever so lightly to Louis' own.

"That's... Harry, that's not a kiss." Louis hisses frustratedly when Harry pulls back and rests on his feet. Louis curses under his breath, releasing himself from his little cocoon and forcing Harry's shoulders back against the window. He presses his lips against Harry's once more like Harry's mouth is water after a long drought. He may as well be seeing as Louis has been lusting after him for three years. He doesn't want to push it for a first kiss, just parts his lips a bit until they're breathing heavily into each others mouths and Harry's palms are flat against his seat while one of Louis' is cupping his face and the other is resting on Harry's hip.

When he pulls back he pushes his fingers into Harry's hair and leans in again to press one final kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth. 

They don't kiss again that night, just spend another ten minutes staring out at the water until the pelican flies off its perch and Harry decides it's time to go home. Louis falls asleep in the car and Harry spends an hour driving so that he can look at his peaceful face just that little bit longer. He apologises for it when Louis wakes up. Louis says he doesn't mind.

**Author's Note:**

> The rest will be here very very soon i promise im sorry!!


End file.
